


In which L resembles Sherlock

by justaclusterfuck



Category: Death Note, Death Note & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Crossover, Drabble, Headcanon, L is a Dick, L is borderline emo, L isn't dead, My First Fanfic, OOC, Other, Post-Canon, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 10:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7571014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaclusterfuck/pseuds/justaclusterfuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It couldn’t be him. He was dead. His corpse had fallen at their feet. It wasn’t possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which L resembles Sherlock

It couldn’t be him. He was dead. His corpse had fallen at their feet. It wasn’t possible. And even if it was him, why would he re-emerge from the shadows of death now?  
  
His breathy laugh was laced with smoke  
  
“Now why would I do that”, his gravelly voice rumbled condescendingly. His bony hand fluidly lifted the cigarette back to his almost indigo lips and he took a long drag.  
  
He seemed to almost be one with the cement wall he was poised purposefully against. The violet smears of exhaustion painted on his under eyes stood out against veiny, near translucent skin. He puffed out a plume of smoke that curled its fingers into his mane of greasy curls and clung to his black, high collared trench coat. A smirk danced challengingly on the corners of his lips as he observed the collection of mismatched investigators.  
  
He looked so wildly out of character that the task force was hesitant to believe it was really him. Back then he would never have had dried blood caked at his cuticles and flecked at the corners of his lips. He would never have had bruises blooming like exotic violets across his cheeks and spattered on his knuckles.  
With the hand holding the cigarette, he elegantly pushed the tortoise shell glasses to rest higher on his crooked nose and continued with exuberant force.  
“You seem to think that I am someone I am not; someone willing to help you”, he pushed off the wall, flicked the cigarette onto the pavement and sauntered away, crushing the smoking remanence beneath the toe of one of his oxfords.  
  
His Baudelaire-ian figure flits from shadow to shadow, alley to alley and they follow. Ivory skin stretched over a skeletal frame, gliding across the pavement like smoke on the wind. Thin legs clad in fitted slacks moved with feline elegance – clearly a natural dancer (swing, ballet, waltz maybe?) – and the tassels on his indigo, woolen scarf swayed in time with his steps.


End file.
